


Anything but love

by belana



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, F/M, Post-Canon Fix-It, Romance, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-19
Updated: 2017-12-27
Packaged: 2019-02-17 04:33:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 8,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13069236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/belana/pseuds/belana
Summary: His whole life can be described by Bi-2 songs.





	1. Budapest

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Всё, кроме любви](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9671807) by [She_is_Hale](https://archiveofourown.org/users/She_is_Hale/pseuds/She_is_Hale), [WTF_Avengers_2017](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WTF_Avengers_2017/pseuds/WTF_Avengers_2017). 



> Soundtrack: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FtHHeU-vGuQ

Bridges sew Budapest into one. They pull together opposite banks of the Danube like a tread pulls together edges of a wound.

Clint thinks about it, standing on the Elizabeth Bridge and pouring whiskey from a flask into a plastic cup of coffee. Here, over the great river, over its dark waters, warm summer wind cools quickly, blowing under thin white blood-stained shirt. Clint shivers a little, pours whiskey into the second cup and leans over the railing. He probably should have dressed more appropriately for this weather, but right now Barton can only warm himself up with alcohol.

His crumpled jacket is covering Natalia Romanova’s shoulders.

She’s standing close without even attempting to smooth down dishevelled red locks. Newly presented arrow-shaped pendant glints around her neck. Killer stiletto heels are lying on the pavement, and the Russian is shifting from one foot to another. Stockings (for some reason Barton is sure she’s wearing stockings, not tights) are torn, little black dress is blood splattered, but it’s not visible now. She’s holding a plastic cup so elegantly as if it were a thin crystal wineglass and watches a brightly-colored boat pass by. Live violin music from the boat dies out as the distance increases.

Black-outed dead Buda is ablaze behind her.

Clint catches himself thinking that he doesn’t look any better: dirty untucked shirt, a scratch on the forehead, tie knot is hanging somewhere around his chest. This is only a fleeting thought, though: the agent quickly switches over. He has a lot to think about. Laura and their young son are waiting for him at home – it seems this is the first time since the wedding he made her worry so much. He’ll have to explain himself to her – and to Coulson. Phil will be especially interested in reading about eight murdered KGB agents, a ditched car, a recruited Black Widow and an emergency that led to a blackout that was a result of a fire in electrical substation.

The amount of whiskey in coffee increases, while Clint remembers a face-saving formula ‘collateral damage’ and wonders if it will save him this time too when Romanova suddenly speak up.

“They look better in the Bond movies,” she says, smirking. Then she put the cup onto the railing and pulls off her stockings.

“Who does?”

“Bond and his girl before the end credits. He had a Romanova in the _From Russia with Love_ movie.”

“I’m not a Brit,” Barton laughs. “And you’re not my girl.”

“Maybe it’s for the best,” Natalia lowers her lashes and smiles.

“I don’t need a girlfriend.”

“Who do you need then? A boyfriend?”

 _Witch,_ Clint thinks cheerfully, then answers without a moment’s hesitation, “I need a friend.”

“To be Bond’s friend? That’s new.”

Natalia drinks up her coffee and holds her cup to Clint. He dutifully shares the whiskey while she fishes out an MP3 player and earbuds out of her clutch. She keeps the right earbud, hands the left one to Clint – and salutes with the plastic cup over the black Danube.

“Here’s a drink to the start of a friendship,” she announces solemnly and downs all of whiskey.

Clint nods with a smile – and drinks up too.

Natalia leans against his shoulder, staring into two banks stitches together by rare threads of bridges. Clint listens to an unfamiliar Russian song.

 

_Weariness settles in_

_After a long day at work_

_Now it’s time_

_To rest a little_

_Yesterday’s victories_

_Left us nothing_

_The gone ones_

_Will not return_

_My friend_

_Is never sad_

_And drinks this night_

_With me_

 

“Budapest is still burning,” Natasha notes.

“Only Buda is.” Clint straightens the jacket on her shoulders in a relaxed gesture and stares over his shoulder into the bright flames. “Pest is alright.”


	2. Bryansk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soundtrack: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Pr2UFhod9yk

“We’ve lost them.”

“Good. Now we have to find ourselves. Looks like we’re not in Bryansk any more.”

“Clint, you’re holding the map upside down.”

“And I see no difference.”

Natasha snorts, pulls the hood of her striped hoody over her head and pulls out a cigarette. She opens the door of the car, steps onto the night forest road and clicks the lighter with no success.

Clint sighs, puts in the fist CD he finds – it spins with a low sound. Rain drops appear on the wield shield – the damned rain starts again. He buttons up his jacket and steps out of the car after finding his black _Zippo_. He’s standing under the only yellow street light that looks out of place here and lights Natasha’s cigarette on the first try. Then he pulls the pack out of her pocket and takes one for himself.

“You’re not smoking,” Natasha raises her eyebrows, wincing at rain drops falling on her eyelashes.

“That was the eighth attempt to quit for good.”

A Russian band can be heard from the car, the one he remembers from their first encounter. Bi-2.

 

_I’ve forgotten what rhymes with ‘wait’_

_But time has a lot of words_

_I’ve seen ahead_

_Love the crone whet a scythe_

_Fear changes colors again_

_Black woman’s shadow falls_

_Over screen of my white walls_

_From dusk till dawn_

_No_ _one_ _is_ _coming_

 

Natasha is afraid to come to Russia, she expects to meet old colleagues. After the most recent encounter she is pensive and smokes slowly and deeply (it looks like cigarettes have a calming effect on her). She didn’t do that in the US, but here this is already a second pack. Barton clung to his word for two days, bore the tempting cigarette smoke – but now he couldn’t help himself.

If Laura called him twenty seven times in three hours then something bad happened. He should call back, but he there isn't time right now. Natasha doesn't know about her, and Clint feels uncomfortable. And maybe he's even ashamed.

Usually men hide their lovers from their wives. Some hide the latter from the former, though.

Natasha is his friend and colleague, damn it. If they keep working together someday he'll have to break his promise to Fury to never ever mention his family to anyone and introduce Laura to Natasha so she won't be suspicious of a female voice in the background.

“It's a good band,” Clint says to break eerie rainy silence of Bryansk forests. “I liked them back in Budapest. I learn Russian listening to them.”

“I hope this trip helped too.” Natasha bits into a cigarette and spreads out a map on the car bonnet, attempting to figure out their location. The map is soon covered in tiny wet dots.

“I learned a new word, _cheburek_.”

“And a word for _occupied_ ,” Natasha reminded him mischievously.

“Please don't write that in the report to Phil. What if he knows Russian?”

She finally livens up a little, stares at the map under a street light, tries to catch a signal in her mobile phone and get a GPS location. She looks around.

“In moments like these I wonder what Nick meant when he teamed us up and said that we had high efficiency rate,” Clint smirks, putting out his cigarette, and puts the stub into the car ashtray.

“I have two alternatives,” Natasha replies. “Either he meant massive damage to the city of Budapest that no one expected of two morons or he wanted to say, _Barton, no sane man will ever work with your mad Russian girl, take her yourself_.”

“You're a good Russian girl, stop bad-mouthing,” Barton grumbles. “And you're about to catch a cold. Get into the car and lock the door. I gotta take a leak. I'll be right back.”

“Nothing is going to happen to me in a forest in the middle of nowhere. They've lost us,” Natasha rolls her eyes, but gets into the car. “While you clearly need directions. Look, if you wander too deep into the forest look for a hut standing on chicken legs. Bryansk forests are just about the right place for it.”

“What?”

Barton leans into the car and stares curiously, but Natasha waves him away.

“When we'll settle down for the night I'll tell you. Freddie Krueger is going to weep in horror.”

Clint nods and almost run to the nearest gulley and quickly dials Laura. He calms down when she says that everything is fine and she just worries about him.

 _This is my job_ , he wants to say, but preservation instinct and expensive roaming service win.

When he gets back it's raining, and the car door is open. His heart misses a beat, but Natasha's loud voice dispels his fears about being found.

Romanova, her head covered by the hood, is sitting on the edge of the passenger seat and cursing. In Russian. She takes her time, she's very expressive as if the land of her ancestors is listening. Natasha curses the rain, this forest and KGB.

Clint sinks into the driver's seat, chuckles and drags her inside. The door slams shut. The music muffles the sound of rain.

Natasha takes off her soaked hoodie. Clint throws his jacket onto the backseat. He keep his mouth shut for two minutes, but breaks and asks with the air of an experienced language expert, “Nat, what's a _yebenya_? ”


	3. Boston

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soundtrack: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jZzqyobrsy0

An undercover mission at the Boston University unexpectedly drags for whole three months. Clint slips home once, during a long weekend, to see newborn Lila. The rest of the time he's trying to track down a leader of an extremist group, who recruits students, and hates golf. He goes to the golf field every single day and each time muses why such a fancy university doesn't have an archery club.

Clint lives not far from the university in a noisy apartment building, occupied mostly by students. He almost blends in: he's a cheerful coach invited to all the parties. But Barton spends his evenings either at work or in his apartment that reminds him of bachelor life – the amount of money and chaos is about the same.

He calls Laura, pours himself whiskey so he can survive a party next door, turns music on and stares out of a window into an unfamiliar city. He studies students' life that was never meant to be his own. He almost feels like a twenty-year-old.

And he won't ever admit to anyone that he's very lonely here.

When door bell rings Clint answers the door with a glass in his hand, he's dressed in grey sweatpants and wears no t-shirt. He's expecting to see another neighbour, but sees Natasha instead.

They haven't contacted each other during the last three months. She had another assignment.

His solitude ends abruptly.

“Nice,” he drawls, staring. She's tanned, rested and elegant. She's wearing a white dress with a poppy print, her hair is carefully curled. He's never seen her like that. “Come in.”

“You have no idea how glad I am to see you too.” She leaves a scarlet smear on his cheek. She smells a little of alcohol.

Barton stares silently the next two minutes as Romanova drags in a huge suitcase, grabs a t-shirt with a shooting target print from a drying rack and find the shower – probably on instinct.

The situation doesn't bother him; it's not the first time. It's not an out of ordinary event in his New York apartment, but he wasn't expecting her in Boston.

While the shower is on Barton drains his whiskey and searches for another glass. A party upstairs is in full swing: bottles clink, laughter filters down.

Natasha exits the shower wearing his t-shirt, her long hair is wet. She smirks seeing two glasses filled with whiskey and ice, powers up Clint's laptop, blatantly enters his password and turn on the music so loud even upstairs neighbours could dance to it.

 

_Your clockwork orange_

_Is made of delicate springs_

_Heart of a beauty_

_Is easy to break_

_Your eyes were shining, you were smiling_

_The magical night seemed endless_

_But stars faded in the morning_

_This isn't serious_

_You'll be sad, and you'll cry a little_

_Lifeline is a slippery slope_

_No tragedies, turn up the music!_

_He came to a sad end_

 

Barton listens to Russian lyrics, leaning onto the kitchen table. Natasha sits across from him in the tiny kitchenette and swallows her whiskey. Music rolls into the open window, balcony, Boston sky.

There is a strip of untanned skin from a ring she took recently off her wedding finger.

“What happened?” Clint isn't patient enough.

“Ground work for one of Fury's big projects is underway,” Natasha replies non-committally and drinks some more.

“How far has it gone?”

“I was engaged to a lawyer and ran off to an archer,” she laughs, crossing her legs. “I started celebrating on a plane from San Francisco.”

“That's harsh,” Clint raises his eyebrows, not knowing what to ask. She's clearly upset, in situations like these they can drink in silence. “Why?” he blurts out.

Natasha sits on the kitchen table behind his shoulder – Clint startles and drinks up his whiskey. It's more comfortable to think that it's alcohol speaking, not his best friend's voice hot in his ear, “First of all, I didn't love him. Secondly, he was boring at sex.”

Someone laughs loudly upstairs. Clint puts away his glass without looking at Natasha.

“Fair enough.”

She puts a hand on Clint's shoulder. Delicate fingers touch his neck, a shiver runs down his spine.

Barton suddenly realizes that Natasha feels so down from this last mission that she came to him to forget about it. She came to friend, to a man she can trust.

And he still haven't told her.

He catches Natasha's hand before she does something inappropriate, squeezes it, turns around and looks her in the eye.

“Nat,” he says loudly, “I'm married.”

“That's unexpected. You could have said it earlier.”

Natasha is so drunk that she isn't upset or surprised by the news, but immediately stops hinting at anything apart from drinking. She slides off the kitchen table with an empty glass in her hand and accepts new information as a given.

“She must be an awesome woman. And patient,” Romanova muses, pouring them more whiskey. “But I'll still crash here for a while. Fury said that you're not making any progress without me. I hope the reputation of a new Latin professor won't be ruined because she dances – barely covered and drunk – to Russian music. Do you agree?”

“She's dancing in golf instructor's t-shirt.”

“On the golf instructor's balcony.”

“No, I don't think it will ruin anything,” Clint concludes, laughing. “I'll introduce you to Laura after this mission.”


	4. Bilhorod-Dnistrovskyi

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soundtrack: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mT-mxnHt7lY

_I step into an abyss_

_The rope quivers like a taught string_

_Escape routes are cut off_

_The target is clear_

 

This is yet another hospital in Clint Barton's life. It's not the first time a bandage presses into his thigh or his face becomes numb as a result of local anaesthesia. He feels light-headed from blood loss and hunger (yesterday evening a nurse persuaded him to eat, he managed to swallow only chicken broth with croutons). He feels like he's still flying in an emergency helicopter: his ears are ringing, he's cross-eyed a little, and all sounds are muffled.

This is not the pain he feels, though. Barton can't sleep: left side of his abdomen hurts like hell, a bullet hole almost turns him inside out, but constant pain in his empty chest hurts so bad he's almost crying.

This is a disaster.

He tried to get into the operation room, preventing doctors from taking care of his own injuries. If he closes his eyes now he can still picture himself crawling down a gulley to a smouldering car wreck and putting pressure on a would in Natasha's belly. Blood covers her suit, his hands, body of an Irani engineer lying under her, dry grass. She's trying to say good-bye, to send him after a Winter Soldier, but Clint doesn't listen, he's stunned and for the first time in his life horrified into stupor. He can only repeat like a broken wind-up toy, “Hold on, Natasha. It's going to be alright. Hold on…”

He had killed and was ready to be killed, but at that time, dragging cold Natasha out of that hole he was scared. He invited himself to the helicopter that took Natasha away from the middle of nowhere that was the route of their escort mission and almost growled at doctors. He doesn't remember a piece of wind shield being extracted from his cheekbone close to his eye.

Maybe doctors stopped arguing and let him into the ICU when they remembered his behaviour in the helicopter.

Tonight Clint doesn't give a damn about anything. He lost his phone, no one can get to him - not Laura, not Director Fury. He doesn't care about sick leave, amblyacousia or the world outside of the hospital. He sits, leaning against a cold wall, and stares at blinking lights of monitors. Natasha is attached to wires and catheters, and it's his fault. If he didn't loose focus, if didn't them fool him on the road and break the chain of cortège the Winter Soldier wouldn't have shot Natasha.

Clint fished an MP3 player and huge headphones out of her things. He hears the leader's voice as if through water – or Natasha's blood that he saw when he was forced to sleep.

 

_I was promised nine lives_

_To live as one_

_The risk is justified when_

_One of yours is going down_

 

And Clint begs someone larger than life and formidable, even though he knows he's the greatest sinner: if he, Barton, has nine lives let Natasha have one now. She saved him too many times – starting with Budapest. She's his best partner. His only partner. Such a duet shouldn't be separated.

Clint loops the song, remembering that time when they talked about the past and Natasha learned about circus put these headphones on his head and played this song. Her fingers were warm then.

Natasha said this song was about him, and Clint translated it himself and learned it.

 

_The whole ring is before you, the audience is holding breath_

_Next is high-wire act, close your eyes_

_Every plot is worth something_

_Bread is mixed with blood and sweat_

_The price of victory is_

_Inevitably too high_

_I'm stepping into the emptiness_

_The dome is spinning like a wheel_

_Only those who walk on the edge_

_Know everything_

 

When the battery dies Clint takes the headphones off and sits motionlessly, staring at monitors and pale Natasha. He doesn't know if she's asleep or unconscious, only blinking lights assure him that his partner is still alive. The morning comes, this grey milky city sunrise hurts him. The second sunrise after the disaster, and still no change.

A thought strikes him: if Natasha won't open her eyes till the sun fully rises she won't ever open them. Silence in the room almost freaks him out.

“I step… into an abyss…” Clint sings to himself – hoarsely, hesitantly, with a terrible accent. A band aid peels off his face, but he can't sit in silence any more.

When he gets to the end of the song Natasha's eyelashes quiver, Clint limps to her bed, sits on the floor to listen – and hears a faint shaky sigh. And a whisper, “Barton?”

“I'm right here,” Clint replies hastily and turned to her. “You're alive…”

Natasha doesn't look at Barton somehow knowing that it's him in the room. She stares at whitewashed ceiling and winces occasionally. Clint suddenly realizes why: when you come around you're surprised by every needle stuck into your body, by each device attached to you. It's like a web.

“Where are we?”

“In a hospital. In Bilhorod-Dnistrovskyi.”

“Damn. I should have guessed.”

Clint is surprised, but he's so happy he forgets to ask about this comment. He gently touches Natasha's bloodless hand with his fingertips for fear of disturbing damned needles. He's still afraid that she came to her senses not for long, that she'll pass out again, but Romanova has tremendous will to live.

“Barton?” She's barely coherent, and Clint leans closer so he doesn't miss anything, to hear every word. “Tell me… why shit always happens to us in cities that start with a B?”

Clint laughs with hysterical relief. His wounded cheekbone hurts as if salt got onto it.


	5. Bangkok

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soundtrack: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YyDzdqrUcuM

...His heart is racing wildly, his legs feel heavy — Clint opens his eyes, gulps air that tastes like mud and screams.

He doesn't realize right away where he is, who he is, what happened, and his blood runs cold. He should have got used to this state after his usual episodes, but he wasn't prepared for this.

That thing that mixed with reality in his head for the last two months is worse than death.

It takes time for night to reshapes itself. Clint tries to inhale, but it feels like his throat is full of ice needles.

“It was I who killed her,” Clint confesses to something severe and dark above him. “I should be kept away from people. I killed Natasha. I did it.”

Hot blood that drips down his hands stops burning his fingers after a cuff around his ear. Clint tries to catch his breath again and blinks. He's sweating.

“If you'd killed me I wouldn't have been able to slap you.” Natasha's angry voice makes him jerk forward only to hear metal clanking again.

It sobers him.

The sense of reality gradually returns to him, his eyes adjust to darkness. Now he remembers: this is rehabilitation, Bangkok, a channel, a house that looks like decently furnished shack. Natasha sits close, dressed in her ripped jeans and his shirt tied around the middle. She's grimly holding an ice pack to his temple, water is dripping down her leg. He is handcuffed to the headboard. It seems he was so eager to break loose he skinned his wrists.

“Why am I…” Clint starts in a hoarse voice.

“Because you're a jerk, sweetheart.” Natasha speaks low, shows signs of telepathy and speaks Russian — thus Clint gathers that she's seething.

Angry Natasha is scarier than his recent nightmares, even though those are scarier than death.

“Did I have a nightmare again?”

“Yes. And you hit me. In the face. While trying to throw me out of the window.”

“Sorry.”

“I won't forgive you. You were forbidden caffeine and alcohol, so what the hell, Clint?”

“I haven't touched coffee for a month!”

“And you were almost sane that whole time!”

Natasha calms down and sighs deeply. Clint knows it's useless to ask her to release him — there were occasions when nightmares lasted a night through.

“Nat.”

“What?”

“What is the color of my eyes?”

“Grey,” Natasha grumbles, taking the ice away.

“No. Look at me, please.”

She sighs, leans closer, stares. Then she straightens, still sitting close, still wary.

“It's still grey,” she repeats gentler. “Not blue.”

“I dreamt that I killed you again. And skinned. And dismembered…” Clint's voice quavers.

“You didn't eat me, did you?”

“No…” He's a little lost.

“It's alright then,” Natasha laughs shakily. “Nothing new.”

The rooms still smells of swamp, outside a drunk Thai man tries to sing. Clint winces as soon as senses return and tries to reach out, but Natasha graciously scratches his nose choosing exactly the place that itches. Then she stands up and lights a cigarette that she fishes out of the chaos. Obviously, this time Clint even managed to stand up.

Barton inhales cigarette smoke. Cigarettes are also forbidden, and now he wants to quit for good for the tenth time. He hasn't seen Laura or the children since the battle of New York, he can't pick up the phone every time she calls so Laura switched to writing him long e-mails with hysterical overtones and hints of jealousy — either of his work or Natasha.

Clint can't admit that he's going mad. He can't tell her what he did after meeting Loki. He can't say that he's not saving the world again, but wallows in some nook in Bangkok after switching to extreme treatments - quack needle therapy and regular cognitive re-calibrations.Barton won't admit even to himself that this is the most dangerous and hopeless battle that he's ever gotten into. It's a battle against himself, his own blue-eyed shadow. He almost lost it once already — the night after the battle with Chitauri — but he managed to write off a long straight scar in his right wrist as a battle injury.

Natasha kills a mosquito on her sun-burnt shoulder with a sharp slap, and Clint flinches.

“Nat,” he says, “Give me the cigarette.”

She shakes her head disapprovingly, sits on the edge of the bed and puts the cigarette against his lips. He inhales greedily as if it's his last one — he won't get another chance in a while even if he asks nicely. He doesn't exhale the smoke right away and watches Natasha smoke.

Romanova's spent three bloody months on him. Anyone else would gave given up already, but she endured his fits first in his New York apartment, then here. Who else could pull this off - disregard their own safety, common sense and drag a man who could be reprogrammed to kill his saviour out of icy hell?

Mosquitos the size of QuinJet, frogs the size of Hulk, high humidity, oppressive heat and suspicious cuisine are just an icing on the cake.

“Nat,” Clint calls out while Natasha sorts out a mess in a bedside table. “Why you haven't left me yet?”

He felt her staring at him as if he were dumb.

“Why you didn't kill me?”

Counter-question sounds like a gunshot. Clint is embarrassed.

Truth is he never really thought about it and never tried to justify his refusal to follow orders in Budapest.

“I had a feeling that we'll make a good team. Why give away an asset?”

Natasha snorts and puts on Clint her huge headphones. She gets into the bed — tired and wet from melted ice and sweat.

“I don't want to lose a reliable partner who've done so much for me either. Go on, Clint. Relax and get some rest.”

 

_I hold you at gunpoint_

_While I'm alive_

_There's no other choice_

_I've imagined many times_

_My body_

_Chalked on the floor_

_I search in vain for_

_Familiar features_

_In every face_

_Let you be_

_The most dear and dangerous_

_To me_

_Memory_

_Losing beacons_

_Loving without fire_

_Winning without a fight_

_Rising despite yourself_

_And hitting a nerve_

_Of the dead_

 

Clint doesn't see or hear, but feels Natasha breathe to the beat of the song. He's still handcuffed, he can't turn his head properly so he twitches his head a little, nudging one headphone away from his ear, - and hears Natasha sing, quietly and hoarsely.

Clint never heard Natasha sing — not screaming out a song with everyone else during a party, not using more expressive Russian folklore during a car chase, but singing. And now her voice works better than a lullaby.

 

_Here every step_

_Every look_

_Can become your last_

_For sure_

_I'm sorry, there's no time_

_To wait for forgiveness_

_Life is short_

_This world will_

_Never be the same_

_My worst enemy_

_Disappears in a reflection_


	6. Bruges

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soundtrack: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zNN11aJV3Pw

Houses in old Bruges are gingerbread, magical, covered in November snow — like a picture on a Christmas card. It leaves a sweet taste in the mouth.

Clint smirks, thinking that a sniper with a rifle is not a usual filling of any cake.

“Nat,” he says quietly into a walkie-talkie. “Do you remember that night when we drank beer in Babruysk? It was called _An evening in Bruges_.”

Through his rifle scope he sees her laugh quietly as she sits near a window in a cosy cafe and checks something in her smartphone. As if she's just read a new Internet meme. She curls a strand of fake blonde hair around her finger, just happening to cover her mouth.

“Yes. It was a stout with cherry overtones.”

“I want some for like an hour. Let's go to Babruysk.”

“I think we'd better choose Minsk.”

“Where's fun in that? Weird shit won't happen to us there. It doesn't start with B.”

“Stop making me laugh, you idiot. I already look like a fool.”

“Pink suits you.”

“Shut up.”

“And blonde hair.”

“I'll kill you,” Natasha says forcibly and snorts into her cup of coffee — quietly, but distinctly.

Clint's having fun, even though his elbows hurt. He holds the rifle tighter, covering Natasha. Since HYDRA was uncovered agents got busier, and Barton and Romanova wistfully look back at their stunts. Clint felt almost no regret for not being at home much, after rehabilitation he learned that adrenalin rush is the best medicine. Nothing makes him more alive — no matter how much he wanted to be normal.

“And necklace is nice too,” he continues to whisper into the walkie-talkie, even though he knows that Natasha will bury him with her bare hands in the largest pile of snow she'll find.

“Shut up.”

“You can't make me.”

“What do I have to do to shut you up? This… Herr is about to come here.”

Clint thinks for a minute, staring at her through the rifle scope. She's picking angrily at her cream cake with a spoon.

“Why did you cut your hair? You used to have amazing long hair.”

“That lawyer loved to touch it,” Natasha admits suddenly. Clint probably wore her out.

“OMG, you still remember him. Grow your hair.”

“Right now?”

“Right now you promise me that. You can grow it later.”

“Alright, I'll do it.”

“That's my girl,” Clint replies right before the target enters the cafe. “He's yours. I'm covering you, Nat.”

One of the HYDRA top ranking officials sits across from Romanova looking like a cat that just saw a canary. He flirts with her. Clint feels almost childish excitement when thinking that Herr Zimmerman doesn't know that someone is watching him through a rifle scope.

Natasha chats to him in German, giggles, pretends to be a charming dolly and gestures wildly — as if excited. Herr Zimmerman is touched: Clint Barton laughs silently, trying to banish the memory of getting shit-faced drunk with this little darling in Babruysk. He's almost confident of success of this mission, but he's still alert and turns off the buzzing phone in his pocket mostly on instinct.

Smitten German doesn't notice tampering her with his cup. Natasha talks his ears off. Soon Clint sees Zimmerman's eyes closing. Barton keeps him covered — just in case — until Natasha handcuffs him and hands a sleeping body to plain-clothes agents.

Then she turns to the window and winks.

“That's my girl,” Clint praises her, pleased. “Now bring me that hot coffee, my sugar pie. I think some of my body parts are about to fall off.”

Natasha mumbles incoherently and disconnects. Barton chuckles, sits by the attic wall, stretches his numb legs and arms, wraps a scarf around his neck and checks the phone.

It's Laura again, even though he asked not to contact him today until he calls. He opens a message with a sigh.

There are only a couple of sentences and a picture: pregnancy test, two lines.

Barton doesn't realize that this is a recent picture until he reads the message.

_I hope this will make you quit your stupid job._

Clint was almost happy. He would have been if not for those words and a smiley at the end of the message. As if Laura decided to have third baby only to make him feel ashamed of working long hours.

Barton laughs, sliding down the wall. He takes off hands-free and adjusts headphones. His whole life can be described by Bi-2 songs.

Well, by that and words that Natasha says when she enters with two cups of coffee, ripping off the blonde wig, “Fuck this”. She sits close to him and stirs sugar into her coffee.

Music keeps playing through the headphones. Clint drink his coffee black.

 

_Blood of heroes freezes in their veins_

_They crash and drown_

_Time and again_

_Ocean will calm you_

_And rest the blame on the waves_

_The film will run out_

_You are carrying_

_My child_

 

“I'll be a father,” Clint says to Natasha and shows her Laura's message.

He takes off ridiculously large necklace that looks like candy, bites its tip and stares at the display for a moment.

“Congratulations,” she smirks. “Again.”


	7. Barcelona

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soundtrack: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uy7l9PpleiU

“It's a pity that this is your last mission,” Natasha sighs.

Plaça de Catalunya is empty at 3 a.m.: there are no people or pigeons. Fountains dye hot darkness with water-color splashes, scent of flowers is sweet. Maybe it's Natasha's perfume. They are walking side by side.

A bus will take them to the Barcelona airport in half an hour, and the next day Barton is going to sign his resignation letter.

Clint snorts at the idea of parting with Natasha and his work so quietly and elegantly. If they forget about a blindingly white bandage on her shoulder they could relax and pretend they are tourists.

“You shouldn't have exposed herself,” Clint carefully touches the bandage.

“Forget it, it's just a scratch. And Laura did promise to kick you out if you end up in a hospital again.”

“Well, I didn't. Now I'll be a normal, proper house husband. _Finita_.”

“Actually, you should have done it long ago.”

Natasha tries to put on a brave face. She smiles, carefully conceals sadness in her voice, but Clint sees and feels everything. They've worked to eight years together, after all – or more, Barton's lost count.

The are friends – the best and the closest.

“Natasha, you know I love my job. If Laura hadn't asked…”

“She threw an iron at you after Sokovia. Was that a request?”

“She was under pressure. And pregnant. Raging hormones and idiot for a husband, cut her some slack. Alright… If she didn't insist I would have left this job in a coffin.”

Clint stares at colored jets of water dancing high up in the night sky – that somehow remind him of a cardiogram line – and suddenly a thought occurs to him.

Everything is over: shootouts, pursuits, hours of thrilled waiting, gags on the radio, undercover missions where they constantly had to grow into alien skins and do unexpected things.

And Clint suddenly stops, pokes in his pockets and thumbs though a songs list in his phone.

“What happened? Is it Laura?”

Natasha is worried and tries to look into his phone over his shoulder.

“No. I remembered that I once promised you that we'll dance again.”

“When?”

“In Brussels, before the Chitauri. Do you remember we pretended to be a couple at a ball? You said it was a pity that we've never danced before, you said I was good at it. And I promised we would, but then there was no time for it.”

Clint turns on the music, shatters the silence.

He puts the phone into the breast pocket of his black shirt and playfully invites Natasha to dance. She accepts with a smile, catches the rhythm instantly – and fountains behind her back burst into a golden blaze.

 

_We can't turn to the beacon light_

_Can't just pop in_

_Call me some time_

_Do call me some time_

 

Clint doesn't know what it is – tango, rumba or something like that. Most probably this doesn't exist. Which means it doesn't have rules or moves. There is only a leader, a follower and music. The most important thing is to feel each other.

To understand without words.

Almost like in a fight.

It can't be very complicated.

 

_When there's no beginning_

_The plot can turn anywhere_

_You must have known it_

_On the other end of tranquillity_

_An empty center_

_I name_

_Hides its hands behind its back_

_Like a forgotten reason_

_It's less than two_

_And I'm forgetting words_

_You're right it's less than two_

_Everything is always less than two_

 

Natasha, feather-light and fiery in her flimsy scarlet dress, whirls on the black-and-red tiles of Plaça de Catalunya, barely touching the ground. Clint leads carefully, but firmly, pulling her closer, pushing her away without taking his eyes off her – then catching her, sliding a hand up her spine.

Suddenly his heart misses a beat.

 

_These lines of suicidal style_

_Have captivity value_

_When phone passwords_

_Entered your mind_

_Where appointed eyes_

_Secured us like objectives_

_And later forgot about us_

_Or simply couldn't get rid of us_

 

Did he ever feel someone like that before? Did anyone ever respond to him like that?

A voice inside his head, brutally honest and almost separate from him, cries ruthlessly, _No_.

At the same moment Clint realizes faint-heartedly it's better to realize some things too late.

 

_We can't turn to the beacon light_

_Can't just pop in_

_Call me some time_

_Do call me some time_

 

Barton doesn't register that he sings the last lines out loud – and Natasha is suddenly doubling over with laughter, almost toppling him over. He straightens up, and Natasha is hugging him and laughing.

“We've been friends for the last eight years at least, Barton, but you still can't speak Russian without an accent. You're funny.”

“Will you call?” Clint hugs her tighter and touches her soft red hair. It finally grew past her shoulders.

“I will,” she promises and falls silent along with the song for several long seconds. “Of course, I will.”

“I'll be waiting,” Clint replies quietly.

Suddenly he realizes that Natasha will be calling him six times a year – for Christmas and birthdays of all Bartons. She'll have other missions – and another partner. She'll be busy again, but her affairs won't be his business any more.

It's over for him, but not for her.


	8. Berlin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soundtrack: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZYG-CxeAbok

Natasha has time to call him four times after 'the Catalan tango'. Only Nathaniel's and his own birthdays are left.

All of it doesn't matter after Steve's call, though.

When Barton hung up Laura nodded at the dusty travelling bag – he took it off the top shelf without thinking. She promised to send divorce papers by mail.

Clint can't figure out two things while he'a sitting at a small restaurant the day before Steve's escapade and patiently waiting for his order. One: how does it happen that one can spend twelve years with a woman to realize that three children are the only common ground for them? After Clint retired they had nothing to talk about over tea, apart from daily routine. He found it oppressive on the third day of his retirement.

The second _mysterium cosmographicum_ that makes him want to scream is as follows: how did Natasha end up on Tony Stark's side?

Barton remembers the way he looked at her through the rifle scope in Bruges, smirks, regretting that getting shit-faced drunk isn't an option today, and unfolds a linen napkin with table ware, that finally arrives along with the beefsteak. He can't eat like a king before a complicated mission, though, because he simply can't eat any more.

There is a fork, a knife and a set of keys with a cheap plastic tag inside that napkin. There's an address written on that tag.

Clint smiles when he sees a few words on the other side of the tag. The handwriting is so familiar it hurts, the name of the song for some reason with a question mark at the end is too.

_Goodbye, Berlin?_

Barton devours his food without actually tasting it, leaves enormous tip, puts on his jacket and runs out of the building like a boy before his first ever date. And he puts his old headphones on.

 

_Lights were dying out two steps off the ground_

_In two empty cities_

_In the skies_

_There's a million reasons to keep odds and ends_

_There's only one way out when fireworks light up the sky_

_Goodbye, Berlin_

 

It felt like the whole world was back to square one, everything was simple and familiar. The price didn't matter – if tomorrow a team of renegades wouldn't defeat a team of supersoldiers at least he wouldn't have to sign the divorce papers.

Now Clint finally feels alive; twilight spring Berlin leads him through quiet neighbourhoods, winking with street signs, embraces him with narrow streets like an old friends. There're keys in Clint's hands, tonight the adrenaline junkie in him is happy again. There will be a new spy game, a new mission – as before.

Everything he loves. Everything he can't live without starts again.

He climbs to the sixteenth floor of an anonymous apartment building. Barton stares at his own reflection in a scratched mirror on the wall and smirks at the idea that he didn't get out of shape during these last ten months. He's unshaven, has new wrinkles, but his eyes are shining again.

Clint enters a quiet small, clean and anonymous apartment – a typical accommodation for tourists of modest means, who came to this city for a couple of days, business travellers, who prefer solitude, – and secret lovers. He takes off his jacket, collapses onto a wide bed with an MP3 player and a cigarette in his hand and realizes that now he can only wait.

It's not that hard. Waiting is what snipers do best.

 

_Miles of road are pressed_

_Into two hours between the lines_

_They stopped dead_

_Two words away from love_

_There's a million reasons, the wall will crumble_

_There's only one way out when the whole world_

_Became deaf with happiness_

_Goodbye, Berlin_

 

And Clint succeeds.

When Natasha descends onto the balcony from the roof and squeezes the rope between window frames to have an escape route. Clint sits up in bed and watches her, suspended in the air for a couple of minutes. It seems like she's balancing between two truths that teared the team apart.

Natasha opens the door to the room and enters Clint's life again with her arms raised pointedly.

“I'm unarmed, Clint. I'm no enemy.”

“I know.” He can't bite back a grin. “Is this a date, Agent Romanoff?”

“You're married, you bastard.” Natasha fishes out a bright-colored USB stick and throws it at him. “It has information on people Tony asked for help and access codes to QuinJet's controls. There will be an ambush in the airport, be careful. If Rogers doesn't come to his senses tomorrow we'll become enemies, Barton.”

“Like in Budapest?”

“If not worse.”

Clint silently twidles the stick in his hands, still sitting on the edge of the bed, then puts it in his pocket.

He has to thank Natasha and let her go, but he can't. She turns to the door, but falters – Barton suddenly realizes that she could have handed him the stick back at the restaurant.

“Laura kicked me out,” he says conversationally.

Natasha turns around and raises an eyebrow.

“Why did you agree to all of this then? You were out.”

 “You wouldn't believe me, Nat.”

Suddenly she shakes her head in all seriousness and steps closer to him.

“I can't be fixed.” Clint smiles nervously and catches her eyes. “I can't be happy, renovate the house and stroll through supermarkets during weekends. I'm alive, truly alive, only when I work. And when I'm with you.”

Natasha takes another step forward. And another. She stops in front of Clint and unzips her leather jacket – he bumps his foreheads into her middle and hugs her. His hand that never shakes snakes underneath her t-shirt, touching an ugly scar on her left side.

Something he was missing these last ten months to the point of pain and absolute vacuum inside fills him, overwhelms his senses and catches in his throat.

“Berlin is the city where walls fall,” Natasha smiles defensively.

“Berlin also starts with a B.”

“Shit.”

Clint stands up and pushes the jacket off her shoulders, and she's kissing him – heady, hotly, greedily, desperately, leaving a dark red smudge on his lips. She doesn't give him a single chance to change his mind. He doesn't intend to stop.

His shirt follows her t-shirt, but they don't seem to notice. Natasha's fingers draw complicated patterns on his back, touching his numerous scars, his story etched into his skin. Barton kisses barely visible bruises on Natasha's neck and decided that he's going to die tomorrow morning. This night is too much like the logical conclusion of his life.

This night must have happened, Clint was absolutely sure of it while exploring Natasha's lithe body, her most deadly weapon. She touches him too precisely, too knowingly, he moans when a bloody trail of kisses dipped down, when Natasha kneels, rattling his belt buckle. The world went dark before his eyes, Clint leans on the wall, puts a hand in her red curls…

“Nat,” he breathes out and leans forward, wanting to say soothing right now, but she stretches her arm up without stopping and touches his lips demanding silence.

Clint kisses her soft palm, groans quietly, meets her eyes and watches her mouth. He stares at her shining eyes and smeared lipstick – and doesn't want to wait any more.

In a minute he's already pushing Natasha's wrists into pillows, intertwining their fingers. Being with her feels too good. She knows him better than he knows himself. They have one rhythm, one breathing rate, one speed, they just fit together.

Closer.

Natasha looses it first: she moans into his lips, mixing mumbles in Russian with his name, claws at his back. Clint follows her a couple of seconds later – and sags, lost to the world and time, but strangely whole and happy. Her warm arms embrace him like he's the most precious thing in the world, he hears words whispered in Russian, “Love me.”

Clint spends with Natasha four out of thirty six hours he had before the countdown. They smoke together on the balcony before sunrise, both wearing leather jackets. Natasha is composed while Barton is bare-chested under his jacket, he's bruised with kisses and scratches. They don't talk. Silence seems to make more sense now.

“And we played last letter with cities four nights in a row in Burgas,” Natasha grumbles finally, throws away the cigarette butt and grabs the rope.

Clint throws away his cigarette too, catches her for one last short and fierce kiss and let's her go, smiling mischievously.

“That was the whole point.”


	9. Budapest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soundtrack: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K1UWSMxvqm8

Bridges sew Budapest into one. They pull together opposite banks of the Danube like a tread pulls together edges of a wound. They link the past and the future, they bind people together.

A lonely sniper waits for his only target every night on one of them named after Empress Elizabeth of Bavaria.

Tha't what snipers do best. Сlint went to Budapest right after he escaped the Raft. He hides well, but makes sure he can be found. He spends his nights on the Elizabeth bridge with a cup of coffee in his hand, his music and the idea that two words Natasha said that night in Berlin were a curse.

Maybe he was just meant to be with her, though.

Clint can't stop thinking about even for a second – even during the fight in the airport, even in jail without any means of contacting Natasha. If it weren't for those two words Barton would have been sure that he ruined everything.

These two words ended something that started a lifetime ago on Elizabeth bridge – and now Clint waited for a new beginning at the same exact spot.

Sometimes he thinks that Natasha won't come, that they said their good-byes in Berlin. Then he listens to songs of that Russian group.

 

_Quiet, souls are breathing slowly before jumping off the roof_

_I hear your every thought,  everything dear to us is topsy-turvy_

_How to put it mildly, how not to lose it, not to break it?_

_We're here to stay like a river, like words of a prayer_

_Anything but love, our whole lives are far away_

_I'm not alone, but I'm nothing without you_

 

One summer night a female silhouette appears on the bridge.

It was impossible to guess from a distance, but Clint has a gut feeling. He recognizes her when she walks from Buda before he can make out her clothes, hair or face. He recognizes her – even though it's very difficult.

Her long red hair are gathered into two girly ponytails, she's wearing faded jeans, battered snickers and a striped hoodie over a white t-shirt. A small pendant glints on her neck, she's carrying two cups of coffee.

“Pest's alright,” Natasha raises an eyebrow, nodding at the city behind Clint's back.

“Buda is not burning today either,” he replies and take one earbud out.

Natasha comes closer, hands him a cup and winks.

“Let's start a fire.”

Clint smiles. He hugs Natasha, sipping coffee, and hand her the headphone.

“I fulfilled your request,” Natasha says while Clint fiddling with the MP3 player. The end of her red ponytail tickles his cheek.

 “Me too.”

She listens to the song, smiles and kisses him.

 

_Ashes are light, I didn't notice time going by_

_Spells wane, turning pearls to glass beads_

_My heart of hearts feels empty without illusions and magic_

_We're here only for a moment, let it sound like words of a prayer_

 

_Anything but love, our whole lives are far away_

_I'm not alone, but I'm nothing without you_


End file.
